


Unbroken

by sylvain



Category: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: Affection, Angst, Arguing, Brothers, Doctor Resident Reader, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt Michelangelo (TMNT), Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, Michelangelo (TMNT) Has ADHD, Neurodivergent Donatello, Neurodivergent Reader, Other, Pre-Relationship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Victim Blaming, Whump, brothers fighting, brothers not coping, neurodivergent characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27303730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylvain/pseuds/sylvain
Summary: Requested: Michelangelo angst.The actual prompt morphed and twisted quite fantastically. I hope this lives up to the hype. :)Mikey's been injured beyond anything his family has experienced before, leaving his brothers terrified. While Donatello, Raphael, and Leonardo struggle with their own guilt and fear, you take over your dearest friend's medical care.
Relationships: Michelangelo & Reader, Michelangelo & You, Michelangelo (TMNT)/Reader, Michelangelo (TMNT)/You
Comments: 12
Kudos: 54





	Unbroken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrightLotusMoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightLotusMoon/gifts).



Tension pours from the Lair into the tunnels. You move quickly. 

Something had told you to bring your delivery of medical supplies early, but what you had chocked up to a gut-feeling now feels much more likely to have been a call from the energies that connect you to Michelangelo and his Father. That psychic pull flares as you draw near and there's no longer room for doubt.

Your messenger bag slips down your arm as you increase your pace. It catches on your elbow awkwardly as you carry the heavy cooler of sundry medicine vials, but you don’t let that slow you down. There’s panic in the air - anger and fear. Casey’s and Raphael’s voices echo through the space - another call for your attention. 

Casey urges Raphael to stop raving before he says something he’s going to regret. But his pleas are ignored. 

Raphael shouts over Casey’s shoulder from the tunnel into the infirmary. He spits accusations and threats at someone unseen. 

In plain clothes, but with all the authority of a Detective, Casey gives Raphael a final warning before pushing past his raging friend and stepping up to you. He grabs the cooler and leads you into the infirmary, thanking god for your arrival.

“Donnie will be so glad you’re here.”

You would have come sooner had someone sent word. You’re about to say as much when Casey steps out of the way and the sight of Mikey laid up on a hospital bed leaves you speechless. Frozen. Donnie gives you a frightened look before his eyes drift to his quarreling brothers, then draws the curtain to block them out.

Raphael’s bellows behind your back, shocking you out of your stupor. “Ya shoulda been there!” 

Your heart leaps, thundering against your ribs. You turn around, breath caught in your throat wondering how on earth _you_ could have prevented such a thing. But Raphael is rounding on Leo, not you, shoving his older brother square in the chest as he brings his face too close. 

“Ya shouldn’ta sent him away!"

Tension ripples up Raph's arms from his fists to his shoulders as he crowds Leo into a corner. "This is on you, Leo. If he don’t wake up- If he don’t... “ 

When words fail him, Raphael launches himself at his brother with a growl. 

Casey’s face twists into horror as Leo, outwardly stoic and calm, takes his brother on. 

In a quick series of grabs, Leo has Raphael twisted and pinned against the wall in seconds. Leo eyes him with a look of impatience and disappointment. “Walk it off, Raph.”

“Try’na get rid of me too, huh?” With his face pressed against the cement, Raphael grinds out his words through clenched teeth. 

Leo turns to Casey, as if he doesn’t have time for such an inconvenience as this. “Get him out of here. He’s making Don nervous." His grip on Raph lets up as he turns to face the curtain once more. "We’ve been hurt before. We heal. Everything is going to be fine.”

You've only caught a glimpse of Mikey's condition. But you've never seen Donatello so scared. You wonder who Leo is trying to convince.

Raphael seethes as Casey takes him by the arm, but he isn't forced out of the room. "Ain't been this bad. Never this fuckin' bad." Raph's voice is hoarse from shouting and crying, but his words don’t seem directed at Leo anymore. As his disbelief turns from swears to prayers, you think you hear him making deals with god and the devil.

“Swear to god, bro,” Raph says, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, “if you don’t wake up, man…” With his elbows on his knees, Raphael buries his face in his hands. 

Casey lays a hand on his friend's shoulder before the radio at his belt urges him topside. "I'm sorry," he says to the room. "I gotta..."

Raphael's head hangs lower, but he nods. 

Leo stands stoic - arms resting at his sides, ignoring Casey's words of departure, watching the drawn curtain. Blinking but not seeing. His breath is even enough for him to be attempting some form of meditation, and you think that’s for the best. But you wonder how long the quiet will last.

Casey tips his head toward the hospital bed. A small jerky movement that grabs your attention. You look at him, head spinning. “You gonna be OK with this?”

You glance over your shoulder to where the curtain hides Donnie and Mikey from view. Slowly, you nod. Even before med school you were proficient at compartmentalizing. You can help Mikey without becoming overwhelmed by seeing your best friend in whatever condition he’s in. You just need to get in there, see what you’re working with.

“I’ll be alright,” you tell Casey and remind yourself.

You wave him off, draw back the curtain, and take a fortifying breath. 

At the head of the hospital bed, Donnie moves as if on autopilot. He's set a PICC line just under Mikey's shoulder and is starting a transfusion. He's talking himself through the steps, laying out his plans for what to do next. Even as you approach, he remains completely focused on his tasks.

His hands shake as he lifts a fresh bag of fluids to the IV stand. Careful as he tries to be, the bag slips from the hook and lands with a wet slap on the floor. 

You crouch down to help and lay a hand on his arm as he apologizes for this little hiccup in Mikey's care. 

Unshed tears cloud his vision. He looks almost as pale as his brother lying on the bed. It's obvious he's doing the best he can, and you couldn't ask for more.

Donnie watches you easily hang the bag and open the line. He holds his breath as you properly take in the scene. “He shouldn’t have been out there alone,” he says quietly. It sounds like another apology.

From the edge of the curtained area, Leo parrots the same words. The way he says them, however, sounds like an accusation. 

“He knows better,” Leo continues, coming closer to Mikey's bedside. The more Leo speaks, the more life returns to his eyes. Fire heats Leo’s words. You suppose anger is easier to feel than fear. “What was he thinking?” 

From the floor, Raphael chokes on a sob. “ _You_ knew better. The fuck were _you_ thinkin, huh?” 

Leo widens his stance and rolls his shoulders back, ignoring his younger brother's latest outburst.

The monitor at Mikey’s bedside beeps, Mikey starts to convulse, and it’s easy to tune out everything else.

You and Leo struggle to hold Mikey still as Donnie checks the equipment.

Donnie adjusts the speed of the morphine drip, scaning Mikey's body and the monitor displays. His mouth is set in a hard line. His jaw ticks with how hard he's clenching his teeth to keep his lip from trembling. 

He wipes his eyes on the back of his wrist and pretends he's not close to tears seeing his only little brother injured beyond what any of them have ever faced. 

Even as their eldest brother works to restrain Mikey from further aggravating his injuries, Leo asks if it's really a good idea to increase the narcotics. "We don't want him dependent on that stuff." 

It was the last straw for Donatello. His resolve falters. He faces Leo with color high on his cheeks and opens his mouth to argue. But he sputters and fails to string together an explanation fit for Leo’s approval. Too much of his energy has been depleted by Mikey's care for Donnie to dumb down his course of treatment into terms Leo can understand. 

You place a hand on Donnie's shoulder and offer him a knowing look. 

"One thing at a time," you tell Leo with the calm authority of your medical expertise. "We get Mikey through this, first. We'll titrate him off the meds when he no longer needs them." 

Exhausted and exasperated, Donnie ducks his head and steps aside to let you take over. He watches you assess the work he's done. He holds his breath as you review the scans and x-rays he provides. 

There’s nothing for him to be ashamed of. His stitches are hasty, but they'll hold. The broken bones have been set properly. 

There's a pain in your chest as your brain switches the images in front of you from patient to Mikey to patient again. You know that unbiased detachment will serve you best in your decision making tonight, but the crease between your eyebrows twitches as you spend a second too long watching Mikey's eyelids flutter, hoping for them to open.

Mikey is barely conscious, groaning with every squirming movement but seemingly unable to keep still. 

The file Donnie's prepared lists a concussion on top of deep tissue bruising, stab wounds, broken bones, a dislocated knee, and a cracked plastron. Mikey's head is wrapped. Thick gauze pads the left side of his skull and dark bruises color his swollen face. With each injury your interest in the case, in the patient before you, grows more clinical. 

You mutter, more to yourself than to Donnie or anyone else, your review of what's been done and what still needs doing. Donatello nods along, keeping up and eager to learn even in the midst of the crisis. Perhaps especially due to the nature of this one. 

And after a few more minutes of tweaking the medications, your dear patient eases more deeply into sedation. 

You smooth your hand over the gauze above Mikey’s ear and allow yourself a breath of relief. His glassy eyes blink up at you, unfocused until you run the back of your fingers down the side of his face. 

Memories of all the times he’s called you ‘Angel’, the times it felt less like a place holder for ‘Dude’ and more like a pet name chosen specifically for you, poke and prod the edges of your mind until one memory rushes through.

You and Mikey sitting on the rooftops together. His feet dangling over the edge of the building, kicking out a rhythm as he percusses with his hands upon his thighs. You rocking forward and back as he listens with rapt attention to you talking about Med school: your residency, your hopes and dreams for advancing the field of neurobiology, and the sundry inbetween stuff that never feels like tangents when you're speaking with him. 

You’re lost in the memory of the night, of you and Mikey and endless possibilities, when Donatello gives your shoulder three taps and pulls you back to the present.

The hairs on your arms rise when Master Splinter arrives to check on Mikey's progress. You wish you could say it was his raw psionic power that gives you chills, or his virtuous presence that tears your attention from your patient. There's no compassion or concern flowing from him right now. And it's neither respect nor admiration you feel for him in this moment. 

Though Splinter approaches the bed, his energies remain rather distant. Cool. Complacent. He reaches out to Mikey through their psychic bond and nods in approval. "He will learn from this,” Sprinter says, voice a low, monotonous hum. “Grow stronger." He turns from his youngest with a clipped, "Humph," and moves to the corner of the room without offering a word of comfort to any of his sons. He sits to meditate, unperturbed by the scene.

As if taking a cue from their father's indifference, Leo and Raphael start up their squabble again. 

It's too loud. Too much. Reading Splinter's energy and watching Mikey's shrink from it like a kitten being scolded for mistaking wicker furniture for their scratch post tests your nerve, grates on your mind, and burrows under your skin. 

A year into your residency, and twice as long helping the Hamatos, you think you'd be able to handle anything. But you begin to get shaky. How Donatello worked so long with his brothers looking over his shoulder and arguing behind his back, you'll never know. 

Every now and then Splinter comments on the strength of Mikey's chi. He seems oblivious to the fact that his son was literally writhing in pain on this hospital bed moments ago. The harder Splinter insists on Mikey’s resilience and tenacity, the more you feel Mikey pulling in on himself, frightened to show his Father the truth of his condition. Protecting his family from his frailty and pain even as he lay nearly unconscious.

Meanwhile, Leonardo insists that this all could have been avoided if Mikey would have exercised some patience and common sense by not going up to the surface alone. 

“Where were you, anyway, Raph?" The unending feud cycles around and around. "You’re supposed to look out for him.”

When Leo starts apologizing on behalf of Raph's and Donnie's negligence, you think his younger brothers are going to snap. You make the call to get them all out, so you can focus on Mikey without worrying about playing referee.

Leo catches Splinter on the way out, making plans to meditate together through the night.

Before Donatello leaves, he pops by for a goodnight. “Get well quick, little bro,” he pleads, squeezing his arm and dropping a kiss upon the crown of his brother’s head.

Raphael does similarly, adding that they’re bedroom won't be the same tonight. Without Mikey's headphones hanging off the side of the bed, still playing music while his snores somehow ride the beat of each song, Raph won't get a wink of sleep. “Won’t sleep til you’re there buggin’ me again.”

Mikey responds with quiet murmurs that his brothers all but ignore. They're more accustomed to and comfortable with hearing their own voices than listening to their brother's pain.

With the room clear, it’s easier to hear Mikey’s mutterings for what they are. Though speaking through a fog of pain and anaesthetic, he’s not incoherent. 

Your heart sinks to realize he understands what's happening to him, that he’s likely heard everything that’s been said in the room. The shouting, the crying. The selfish demands on his suffering body. The detached sureness of his Father. 

So confident that all will be fine, Splinter hadn’t even laid a hand on Mikey or spared a shred of empathy before he had gone. 

You pay close attention to Mikey’s words, letting them inform your care. 

Mikey’s eyes peek through heavy lids, trying to follow you around the room. But when you’re at his side again, and your hand strokes his face, his eyes close. He leans into your palm despite his bruised and fractured jaw. 

For a few minutes you remain just like this - cradling his face in your hands, watching him drift in the haze of sedation, feeling his energies ebb and flow from their hiding place in their search for the safety he’s always found with you.

“I’m here,” you assure him gently. “It’s only me.”

Your promise is enough for his energies to move free. 

Hushed sounds and quiet clicks of your tongue fill the space between you as you put Mikey’s mind at ease. Your fingers pitter-patter over his cheek bones and down the sides of his neck as you palpate for further injuries. They pass over his clavicle and shoulders as Mikey stutters a breath. 

A sling traps his arm against his chest, where his fingers tap the scute over his heart. It’s a small movement, perhaps one of the only movements he can safely make in his condition, and even then, it must be a challenge. For someone you’ve only seen lying this still during his most depressive episodes, you think being incapacitated thusly must be torture.

His bandaged hand is heavy as you lift it. His fingers are cool under the press of your lips. They curl reflexively around yours and you kiss his hand again. 

“My best days are the ones I spend with you,” you whisper. It hurts to be burdening him with such a thing right now, but you also think it’s a truth he should hear sooner rather than later. 

Mikey’s chest rises and falls with staggered, labored breaths as you pet his chest. You talk and Mikey lets your voice wash over him. He leans his head back, relaxed and floaty, feeling like he's in a dream. And as he has so many times before, in dreams, Mikey tells you he loves you.

You bite your lips together as tears fill your eyes. For the first time tonight you think they’ll truly spill over. “Love you, too,” you say, and it doesn’t matter to you whether he means it romantically or as friends because the relationship you share and the love you’ve fostered for each other doesn’t need labels or constraints. 

When Mikey seems to be falling asleep you try to give him some space, but he doesn’t want you gone. His mind is quieter when you’re at his side. 

You rub his leg as you stand by his bed. Though your back is aching and your feet protest the constant bustle, you still haven’t been able to sit. 

“Tell me if you need anything,” you say in earnest. 

Despite your efforts to keep Mikey hydrated, his words are but a croak. “Just you.”

“Hm?” 

“You here. Could you-” Mikey’s eyes close and his hand turns palm up on the bed. Though he can’t muster the strength to lift his arm, his fingers curl and release inviting you back. You slide your hand into his and give it a light squeeze. 

“Stay,” he whispers weakly.

Sleepy, and still in pain despite the heavy opiate cocktail you and Donatello created for him, Mikey gives a weak tug on your hand and whimpers, begging you to understand what he needs.

You climb up, thankful for the extra wide bed, and rest against his wrapped plastron carefully. He buries his face into the top of your head. He nuzzles the hand you’ve raised to cup his cheek. The soft, sleepy sounds he makes drift in and out, sometimes words and sometimes just a hum. 

“...M no good,” Mikey mumbles into your hair, and you feel his breath hitch. “Not good enough.”

“Oh… no, baby,” you say, bracing yourself on the mattress and pushing up to look him in the eye. You stroke the lines of his brow ridge above his eyes, left and right, until his eyes flutter open. They shine with tears threatening to fall. “You’re always enough. Always been enough.”

He gives the slightest turn of his head, but his eyes stay locked on yours as if desperate to believe your words. His lip trembles. His tears slide down his cheeks.

“You’re perfect, sweetheart.” You continue to pet his face, but you let his tears fall freely, letting him know it’s alright to cry.

“For you?” Mikey asks, bordering on inaudible. But you hear him. The question rises from the depths of his being, calling out to you, and you answer the call with the truth of your soul.

“Always. Perfect for me. Forever perfect for me.”


End file.
